


Coffee's For Closers and Terrible Poets

by PrettyOkayGatsby



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Cobraz, Coffeeshop AU, Gabe may or may not be a drug dealer, HE IS, M/M, Swearing, just kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyOkayGatsby/pseuds/PrettyOkayGatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick is a (pretty terrible) barista at Cobraz, a run down coffee shop famous for its maybe (probably) drug laced signature drink and Slam Poetry Saturdays. Pete is an angsty college kid who might be (is) in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee's For Closers and Terrible Poets

“What’s with the face, Stump?” Vicky asked and hissed as she accidentally burned herself on the hot metal of the milk steamer.

“It’s Saturday,” Brendon said and grinned.

“Shut up,” Patrick said and flung the leftover bits of chocolate muffin he had been eating into his face. “Shut up, shut up!”

“Wait, wait, back up, what’s so special about Saturday?” she asked. “New girl here, remember?”

“Nothing! Shut up!” Patrick barked and covered Brendon’s mouth. “Don’t say a word.”

“Slam Poetry Saturday!” Gabe crowed from where he and Jon were setting up extra chairs and tables. “Patrick has such a boner for this one guy!”

“Saporta, I will kill you!” Patrick shouted, flushing red to the collar of his shirt. Brendon licked his hand and with a startled gasp, Patrick pulled away. “Aw, fuck you!”

“Last time I checked, I didn’t have tattoos and horse teeth!” he responded, still grinning.

“You have a crush?” Vicky asked and giggled, a bit maniacally. “That is so cute!”

“I know, right? He blushes so hard, sometimes I think he’s going to pass out,” Brendon teased. Patrick slammed his head against the nearest wall.

“I want to die,” he moaned.

“And to think,” Gabe said, “only three more hours until your shift ends.”

Cobraz ( _yes, Ryland, the z is totally necessary)_ was known for three things.

1)      Their signature Cobra’s Bite (six shots of espresso, chocolate syrup and a secret ingredient they all felt more comfortable not knowing) that could give any student on their last legs a good kick in the ass.

2)      Gabe’s secret ‘side business’ that kept them open, shitty building and bad coffee made by college kids and all.

3)      Slam Poetry Saturdays, always a huge hit with the art students in the nearby college campus.

 

It hadn’t been Patrick’s favorite day, if he was being honest. Three hours of loud, angry poetry with shitty tips and monotonous work cranking out Bites to impatient assholes. Patrick didn’t work well under pressure and he was almost positive they could smell his fear.

He was almost convinced the overtime wasn’t worth it when he started showing up.

Okay, and maybe it was a bit creepy for Patrick to be so focused on an almost complete stranger but come on, give him a break.

He was really hot.

Angry Slam Poet Guy came in every Saturday with a group of his friends, a different girl on his arm every few weeks. They would push the tables closest to the stage together and go up one by one, cheering and stamping their feet loudly for each other. It was sweet, when they weren’t talking about setting fire to the government or hookers.

The poets began to stream in, slowly at first and then faster as it got later, chatting happily amongst each other, some carrying instruments. Patrick plugged in his headphones and tried to focus on his work rather than the ticking clock because even if Angry Slam Poet Guy was always here before eight didn’t mean he wasn’t coming and why did Patrick care anyways? That didn’t stop his heart from sinking to his shoes and his coworkers sympathetic looks and the moment when Patrick decided he’d gotten over it, the door swung open.

He knew the exact time because Brendon shoved an elbow into his side as he was pouring the coffee. “Fuck,” Patrick hissed and stuck his fingers into his mouth. “Goddamn asshole!”

Brendon leaned over, his hair tickling Patrick’s nose and whispered, “keep cool, he’s here! Talk to him!” before disappearing into the kitchen.

Patrick felt a growing sense of desperation as the line got shorter, recognizing Afro and Heavily Tattooed as Slam Poet Guy’s friends. They hovered around the counter even after they got their drinks, grinning and punching each other. Patrick shrugged it off as best as he could, trying his best to smile as Slam Poet Guy stepped forward.

“Hi, what can I get for you?” Patrick asked.

The other man licked his lips and craned his head back to stare at the menu, his wreath of thorns peeking out from his faded t-shirt, the little flash of skin enough to make Patrick’s stomach churn.

“Ah, what do you recommend?” he asked, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Getting pretty tired of Bites, to be honest.”

“They’re not for everyday use,” Patrick agreed, although he personally had never tried one. He preferred to stay away from things containing unknown substances, thank you very much Gabe. “Uh, the Café Breve is pretty popular,” he offered, “it’s got espresso, steamed half-and-half and milk foam in it.” He tried his best not to stare as Slam Poet Guy scratched his stomach and oh God, that was another tattoo.

“What do you like?” it came out huskier than either of them was expecting and they both blinked.

“I don’t like coffee very much,” Patrick admitted, shrugged his shoulders and added, “Brendon swears by the Caffé Mocha, though, it has whipped cream, steamed milk, chocolate syrup and espresso. Is that okay?”

Patrick started on the drink, pausing his music as the first poet took the stage. He handed the order off to Brendon and turned his attention to the confections display, restocking whatever looked low from the boxes shoved under the counter.

“What do you like, Pete, really?” someone said and began laugh. “Oh my God.”

“Shut the fuck up, Trohman!” Another hissed and Patrick definitely recognized that voice. “He’s right there!”

“Headphones in, man, you’re fine.”

“Caffé  Mocha!” Brendon said and Patrick stood, brushing the lint off of his pants.

“I’ll hand it over but that’s the last order for a while,” Patrick said. Brendon nodded.

“Thank God, my hands are tired. Vicky had to go home early for that burn she got with the steamer. I had to teach Jon as we were filling out orders.”

“Meeeh,” Patrick whined mockingly. Brendon pinched his side and laughed.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Whatever. Here’s your order,” Patrick said, shooing his friend away, “uh-”

“Pete,” Slam Poetry Guy said quickly. “My name is Pete.”

“Pete,” Patrick said and smiled, “okay, Pete, here’s your order. Enjoy.”

“Thanks.”

Still casting dark looks at his friends, Pete swaggered away.

“He’s so into you,” Heavily Tattooed said.

“What?”

“What?”

“I know, right?” Brendon said. “They’re such idiots.”

“Yeah, man,” Afro drawled. “You have to deal with this shit too?”

“All damn day,” Brendon snorted. “Seven days a week.”

“Damn,” Heavily Tattooed said.

“Joe! Andy!” Pete called. “Get your asses over here, now!”

“The wife calls,” Afro said wryly.

“I sure as shit didn’t marry him,” Heavily Tattooed muttered.

Brendon smirked. “Called it,” he told Patrick. “Now somebody ask somebody out on a date already before I go insane.”

“You’re an idiot,” Patrick said. “Please shut up, I want to listen.”

The current poet was a tall girl with a guitar who seemed to just be finishing up. She bowed to the audience and grinned, reminding everyone to “eat people, not animals.”

“Okay then,” Brendon commented. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Next up,” Gabe said into the microphone, “the one, the only, thank God, Pete Wentz!”

“Fuck you, Gabe,” Pete said and clambered over the table and onto the stage. “What’s up, motherfuckers?” he asked and grinned at the roar of approval. “We’re going to take things a little differently than usual, if that’s okay. This piece is new and really like person and important to me, so, uh, yeah, I hope you like it.” He coughed and with a sigh, began, “I'm a young one stuck in the thoughts of an old one's head when all the others were just stirring awake, I'm trying to trick myself to fall asleep again, woah, my head's in heaven, my soles are in hell; let's meet in the purgatory of my hips and get well. Hurry, hurry, you put my head in such a flurry, flurry. Oh, what makes you so special? What makes you so special? I'm gonna leave you. I'm gonna teach you.”

It surprised Patrick how softly he spoke, how even if the words seemed angry, Pete wasn’t, sighing his poem into the microphone like they were the last words he’d ever speak. When his eyes opened at the end of his poem, he glanced around the room before focusing them on Patrick.

Patrick held his gaze steadily as he could, afraid that if he looked away it would be lost on someone else, like Ryan or a girl in the crowd. “Give it up for Pete!” Gabe shouted and the room erupted into applause. “Yeah, man! Now, next up, the gorgeous and talented Ryan Ross!”

Patrick clapped politely as Pete jumped off the platform to make room for the next contestant. He made a break for the door only to be intercepted by Afro and Korean Tom Cruise, Heavily Tattooed watching amusedly from the door way as they dragged him to the counter by the arms.

“Don’t mind us,” Afro said, “just dropping off our friend here.”

Pete struggled uselessly before falling limp, his feet an inch off the floor. He smiled at Patrick with what little dignity he retained. “Did you like it?”

Patrick bit back a snort of laughter and nodded, “Yeah, it was really good, not much like all your other poems.”

“Yeah, I wanted to try out something new for a change. My throat was hurting from all that screaming. Looks like it was a hit though,” Pete said.

“I really liked it, I-”

“Just fucking ask him out already!” Afro groaned. “My arms are getting tired.”

“Shut the fuck up, Trohman!” Pete snarled and stomped down hard on his friend’s foot. “I swear to god if you-”

“Would you like to go out sometime?” Patrick asked.

Pete choked, swiveled his head to stare at Patrick, his cheeks turning an interesting shade of red.

“Yes, he would!” Korean Tom Cruise said, “just date him already so we can all move on with our lives!”

“I know, right?” Brendon called from behind the counter. “Patrick likes movies!”

“Pete likes movies,” Afro said and shook Pete roughly, “he’s excited about that new one with whats-her-face, aren’t you, Pete? Maybe they could go together?”

“Patrick’s free this Sunday after six o’clock,” Brendon affirmed.

“What a coincidence, so is Pete,” Afro said, “Drop him, man.”

Pete punched them both in the sides once his feet were firmly on the floor, hissed unhappily at the cryptic, “you’ll thank us one day” as his friends disappeared into the crowd.

Or at least, Patrick thought they were his friends.

He could be wrong.

“Look, I’m sorry about them,” Pete said, “just forget about everything they said, are you okay?”

“So, you don’t want to go on a date?” Patrick asked and wanted to punch himself straight afterwards. “It’s fine if you don’t I mean-”

“No, no! I do I just don’t-”

“It’s fine, really, if you don’t want to-”

“Yes!” Brendon screeched. “Yes, he wants to go on a date with you, yes he really likes you, fuck we just went through this, guys! You’re so stupid, oh my god. I can’t anymore with you two.” He stormed off to the back room.

“Oh,” Pete said awkwardly, “so you do…?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, looking everywhere but Pete. “I mean, if you want to, then I-”

“I do,” Pete said hurriedly, “like a lot. A lot, a lot, actually.”

“Oh,” Patrick breathed and then grinned. “So, movies?”

“I like movies,” Pete answered, looking a bit dazed. “When’s a good time? Sunday?”

“Actually, I think my shift’s just about over.” Patrick stepped behind the counter and undid his apron, hanging it up hurriedly on the hook. “Brendon,” he called, “I’m leaving!”

Brendon peeked out from the doorway and, at Pete and Patrick’s matching grins, rolled his eyes. “Thank _fuck.”_

“Oh, shut up, Urie,” Patrick said as Pete opened the door for him.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Gabe shouted.

“That doesn’t narrow things down much, does it?” Pete muttered and beamed when Patrick laughed.

“No, I guess it doesn’t.”

"He's a good guy though, runs a damn good coffeehouse."

"You think so? All we ever sell are Bites and I'm almost positive it's laced with peyote if we're being completely honest. Not to mention absolutely none of us know how to make normal coffee either."

Pete shrugged. "I go more for the company than the coffee anyways."

"Really?"

"Yeah, coffee's shit but he's got some damn fine baristas." Pete grinned lecherously, leaning over to breath the words into Patrick's ear. PatricK pushed him away, laughing.

"Oh, shut up!"

"It's true!" Pete said, looking flushed and happy as he took Patrick's hand in his. "You're the only person who doesn't know how hot you are!" 

"Shut up!"

Pete laughed  and swung their arms back and forth between them. He glanced down at Patrick and with another fond smile asked, "So, Stump, where to first?"


End file.
